cuvallorn

I had not dreamed in many days. Between the wound in my shoulder - which had been infected, but is now healing - and the turmoil in my own emotions concerning one close to me, I thought I would dream more often than the silence that faced me when I closed my eyes. 

The paper is stuffed haphazardly into the journal, as if it was torn out and reluctantly threaded into the new book. The Sindarin in which it is written is shaky as if the hands writing were trembling. 

This story is a part of a series. Read the first one here. 

The first thing I heard was the crashing of waves along the shoreline. The sound was hypnotizing but arrhythmic, no true pattern to be discerned as the ocean crests and falls. It soothes a longing in my soul. I heard the cries of seagulls as they flew overhead, sharp and piercing, but familiar. 

An address is written in exquisite Sindarin, then again in Westron. It is likely in case the letter drops from the sky, as the parchment is rolled and tied with string to be sent by falcon.